


Forgotten Moments

by Bookwormgal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bad Decisions, Canon - TV, Confessions, Confessions Throughout History, Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exorcisms, Guilt, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Magic, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Other, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-15 22:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: Every time that Crowley confessed how much he loved his angel, Aziraphale made him forget. At first, out of denial of what Crowley was telling him. Later, out of fear of what would happen if Crowley's feelings were discovered.But no matter how many times the demon forgot about his previous confessions, he never stopped. And it broke Aziraphale's heart every time that he took those memories away.





	Forgotten Moments

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes from a challenge issued to write something about one of these two dorks continuously admitting that he loves the other one and then losing the memory of said confession. Let’s see if I can live up to that challenge.

There was a story… Or rather, there will one day be a story… Regardless, there is a story of a container that holds all of the evils of the world. In some versions, it is a jug or a jar. But most people prefer the version where it is a box. And that box held all of the pain, suffering, misery, sorrow, and heartache of the world, keeping it locked away where it could do no harm. But eventually curiosity and temptation led to a woman opening that box and releasing those woes. You might have heard of this woman. Tends to go by the name of Pandora?

Some people like to complain at this point about the idea of a woman being responsible for all suffering in the world. And some people like to compare it to another story of a woman eating a piece of forbidden fruit and making a mess of things for all of humanity. But that’s not the point in this case.

Another possible moral of that story could be this. You can’t lock away all that heartache, sorrow, and longing forever. Eventually it’ll come out. Especially when there is someone with an insatiable curiosity and a knack for temptations slithering around.

* * *

There was an ark. One filled with animals, two-by-two. And a family, chosen specifically to be spared when their neighbors were condemned to drowned. And almost a dozen children, smuggled carefully onboard by a stubborn demon and hidden in the hay with a pair of goats. And an angel, keeping the aforementioned and exhausted demon on deck rather than letting him go back out on a fruitless search for more survivors. At that point, the demon was more likely to end up falling out of the sky and drowning.

And he’d already Fallen enough times.

The demon’s name at that moment was Crawly, though that would change eventually, and the angel’s name was Aziraphale. And while Aziraphale tried to be loyal to the Great Plan and did his best to convince himself that the people dying in the Flood was for the greater good, he was uncertain enough that he did not thwart Crawly’s attempt to save as many children as possible. Not until he knew that there were no more left to save and he needed to keep the demon from discorporating in the process.

They may technically be considered mortal enemies on paper, but neither of them had ever behaved that way. Their relationship had always been different. _Closer_.

And so they both sat on deck, a small miracle that they didn’t remember which of them performed keeping the rain from drenching them further, and waited for the storm to pass. It would take over a month for the rain to stop and there was nothing to pass the time except for sneaking food to the stowaways and talking.

But spending that much time together in close quarters, with nothing else to do except talk and think, something was bound to happen. A mistake. Two of them, in fact.

Crawly made the first mistake. A confession that he did not intend. Not yet. Not like this.

“Everyone keeps going around and claiming that She loves everyone and everything. But then Her supposed ‘Great Plan’ involves this.” Crawly gestured at the endless water, both the movement and his voice resigned and tired. “I don’t get it. And don’t say that _you_ get it, because we both know that would be a lie, angel. But you don’t go around killing off all those people, deciding that all of them outside of this one family is irredeemable and completely evil. Not when you’re supposed to love them. You don’t do this when you love someone.”

Aziraphale, just as tired, stressed out, and heartbroken over the countless deaths, could only shake his head wearily at Crawly’s words. At that point in history, he could not agree with the sentiment. Not outside of his own head. And even within his thoughts, he tried to bury those doubts. Because doubting and questioning the tragic event felt too similar to doubting and questioning Her, which was a dangerous thing for an angel to do. It was far safer and easier to let the demon ask the questions and make the comments that Aziraphale could not yet risk.

He did, however, feel obligated to speak in Her defense. Even if he could not understand why She would cause such a tragedy.

“Well, you’re a demon,” he said, falling back on a familiar argument. “What would you know about love anyway?”

“I love you and you don’t see _me_ trying to murder you with a monsoon.”

The tired and frustrated words weren’t meant to come tumbling out of the demon’s mouth in that moment. That was his mistake. But even as Crawly stiffened slightly as he realized what he said, he did not take them back. Because he did mean them. And even if the timing was wrong, he had planned to tell the angel. So as Aziraphale stared at him in confusion, Crawly gathered up his courage and repeated his confession.

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Are you really trying to argue with me about this? We’re going to sound like some of those kids hiding with the goats if you keep this up.”

“I’m an angel,” he said, confused and frustrated.

Crawly nodded slowly and said, “I kind of noticed?”

“And you’re a demon.”

“We already established that part.”

“So you _can’t_ love me.”

Crawly sat up straighter and looked Aziraphale directly in the eyes. While he’d mastered the ability to shrink the color in his eyes down to the size of human irises, it would be a few thousand more years before the invention of anything useful to completely conceal them. When he met the angel’s gaze, there was nothing to hide his emotions behind. His face was nothing more than complete and open honesty.

There were several emotions in his eyes at that moment. Fear of rejection and heartache. But there was also hope and determination. Enough to give him the courage not to back down.

“Aziraphale,” he said firmly, refusing to look away, “I _do_ love you. Not asking you if you… Because you don’t have to. You don’t have to say or do anything different either. Whatever this is… It’s fine. More than fine. Perfect. But that doesn’t change what I feel. And you can keep arguing all you want. Doesn’t matter because I know. I love you.”

They stared at each other in silence. Or at least as much silence as possible during a rather heavy storm, the skies dumping down a torrential downpour as the ark rocked around on rough waves. And while the demon searched for some hint on the angel’s face, his thoughts remained an enigma. All he could do was wait for Aziraphale’s response to his confession.

Offering your heart to someone is always a dangerous choice. The vulnerability of opening yourself up that much leaves you open to the possibility of pain and rejection. But it is a choice that has been made since the beginning and will continue until all life is extinguished.

After what felt like a lifetime, Aziraphale shook his head as a sad and regretful expression took over. But he reached out and cupped the side of the demon’s head.

“Crawly,” he said gently, “I don’t know if you’re lying to me—”

“I would never lie to you,” interrupted Crawly. “Not to you. Not about this.”

“—or lying to yourself,” he continued as if he didn’t hear the demon. “Maybe you’ve tricked yourself or made a mistake. I don’t know what this is, but it isn’t real. It can’t be real. I’m sorry. It’ll be easier for both of us if we pretend this never happened.”

“I’m not going to do that, angel.”

“I know…”

What he did next should not have worked. No demon would leave himself that vulnerable and open to the influence of an angel. For most, that lack of defense would be fatal. But Crawly trusted Aziraphale and never had any reason to attempt resisting his power. He wasn’t prepared for the subtle and gentle miracle that slid into his mind and quieted his consciousness into a peaceful nap. It was easy since Crawly was already developing the habit of sleeping regularly. With a careful touch, the angel tugged the recent memory of the demon’s entire confession free and pulled it from Crawly’s mind. Then Aziraphale bundled the stolen memory away inside himself, keeping it safe and trapped beyond the demon’s reach.

As Aziraphale pulled his hand away, Crawly blinked awake with a mildly confused expression. To him, it felt like he momentarily lost his train of thought. He’d completely forgotten the conversation and what he’d admitted to the angel. It was as if it never happened in the first place.

“Perhaps you should check on the kids?” suggested Aziraphale, hoping to distract the demon away from more dangerous topics. “The ones that you left with the goats?”

Shaking his head briefly as if to clear it, Crawly said, “Right.” As he stood up, he added, “Of course, where else would I hide a bunch of kids than with the goats?”

And, still mildly amused by his pun, the demon left the angel alone on deck. Aziraphale wiped away the moisture from his face. Rainwater. It must be rainwater. The rain also explained why his physical body seemed to be shaking slightly. His wet clothes left him slightly chilled. That’s all.

Everything was fine, Aziraphale quietly assured himself. It was just stress, frustration, and a slip of the tongue. Crawly didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have meant it. He wouldn’t have said something like that if he wasn’t distracted and upset about the whole Flood business. And at least this way, it wouldn’t ruin anything. Nothing would change. Aziraphale kept telling himself that it was for the best.

Perhaps it wasn’t the nicest thing to mess with the demon’s mind without permission, but the angel told himself that it was the kinder option. If drowning countless humans could be considered an act for the greater good, then surely removing one memory from Crawly was understandable? Especially when it was a mistake. There was nothing wrong with repairing a mistake and protecting the demon from the consequences of that mistake. Aziraphale kept assuring himself that he did the right thing the same way that he had and would continue to reassure himself concerning several different orders from Heaven over the course of human history.

And there _was_ a mistake that day. Two of them. One was Crawly saying the words when he did not plan to. But the second and far more serious of the two mistakes was Aziraphale removing the memory from the demon. Because that decision would haunt them both for the next several thousand years.

Because even though Aziraphale told himself over and over that it was only one little mistake on Crawly’s part, just one little memory that he would be better off forgetting, it was simply the _first_.

* * *

Being reprimanded for excessive miracles was never enjoyable. But Aziraphale endured it. He couldn’t argue that anything the other angels said was true. He accepted that it was his own fault, using that many “official” miracles on humans outside of his actual assignments. He knew that those miracles were the ones that were monitored closely. The miracles reserved for his own personal use, his “celestial wages,” would have been a far better option. He was allowed to use them for more general purposes to maintain a life on Earth without drawing too much attention. Heaven rarely audited those accounts.

But his personal account was more limited than his “business account” and the human family had been very kind to him. He had thought they deserved more than a general blessing. Especially with how sick their youngest child was. He had believed that their kindness towards a stranger deserved a proper reward. But Heaven had disagreed; they were not his assignment and Gabriel had delivered a quite thorough lecture on why Aziraphale couldn’t go around performing miracles for every random human who crossed his path.

By the time he was shooed back to Earth, he felt rather small and foolish. Aziraphale didn’t regret helping those people, but he didn’t feel as good about it anymore either. Or about his previous certainty that he did the right thing. He never wanted to admit it, but every visit to Heaven left him off-balanced and uncertain upon his return.

And that was the state that Crawly found him in a few days later, sitting under a tree and watching a sheep herd. It took a little effort on the demon’s part, but he managed to tempt the entire story out of him.

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. Angels are a bunch of hypocritical and oblivious jerks. Present company excluded.”

Aziraphale gave him a rather indignant glare. Crawly shrugged and twisted a strand of hair around his finger lazily.

“Oh, they talk a big game, going on about the greater good and all that. But most of the time that they wander down here, it’s to smite someone. Or to tell some poor sap that they have a special role in the ‘Great Plan’ that either involves someone having a kid when their wife is too old or to kill their kid as a sacrifice or just to suffer horribly to prove their faith. That’s the only time that Heaven seems to care what’s going on down here. Otherwise they just ignore people.” Crawly gestured at Aziraphale. “But you don’t do that. You get to see them during their daily lives. You meet their families, you hear them talk about the stories they tell around the fire at night, you try their food… You’re there. You know them. You actually care.”

“Heaven cares. Angels are meant to love everyone. All of God’s creatures, great and small.”

He snorted and said, “Sure, I can just _feel_ the love whenever they spot me and go into murder mode. But honestly, angel, they don’t care about humans. They just see them as points in a game. Hell’s the same way. Any love they’ve got for the world is all…” Crawly waved his hand in a vague gesture. “Generalized. Distant love. Not real and authentic love.”

Aziraphale wanted to argue. He wanted to defend Heaven against the demon’s slander. It would be the proper thing to do. But he was still hurt by the condescending and unpleasant way that Gabriel spoke to him. And if the angel was completely honest with himself, he wasn’t entirely certain that Crawly was wrong about his assessment.

“You’re different than the other angels. A lot less stuck-up. And you actually care. You _like_ it here,” he continued. Crawly stared out at the grazing sheep, still twisting a strand of his long hair between his fingers. “Makes you the best angel to be assigned here.”

“I’m certain any angel who was commanded to look after things on Earth would do just as well.”

“But it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be _you_.”

Smiling weakly, Aziraphale said, “You’re just saying that because they wouldn’t indulge you with conversation. You’d be bored to tears in no time. Or discorporated.”

“No,” he said quietly, sounding a bit more serious. “I’d miss you. Why would I want any old angel running around down here when I’ve got the best?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Aziraphale.” Crawly’s tone made the angel look at him properly, the demon’s expression a little uncertain. “You’re not just any angel. You’re… I love you.”

And hearing those words again from the demon, Aziraphale stiffened and stared with wide eyes. Crawly abruptly found the sheep impossibly fascinating to look at.

Quietly, Aziraphale said, “I appreciate the gesture, but you shouldn’t have said that. If you’re trying to cheer me up, you don’t need to lie to me. I’m fine.”

“I’m not lying, angel. Been meaning to tell you for a while. Thought you ought to know, that’s all.”

When Aziraphale didn’t respond for a few minutes, Crawly eventually risked looking at the angel again. His eyes were closed and his expression made something in the demon’s chest hurt. And when he reached out and touched the angel’s shoulder, Aziraphale’s eyes looked a little red when he finally opened them.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Crawly softly. “I just…”

“You’re a demon,” he said with a sad smile, reaching up to cup the side of Crawly’s face. “It’s in your nature. And I’m sorry that you’re confused or trying to trick me or whatever is happening, but it would be better for both of us if you stopped.”

The demon was pushed into the trance-like state before Aziraphale finished speaking, the gentle miracle letting his mind rest while the angel tugged the recent memory. Once again, the angel bundled it away inside himself and let Crawly forget.

This time, he took a moment to blink a few times and rub at his burning eyes. He knew that some humans suffered strange reactions when flowers bloomed and wondered if his corporeal body might share that weakness. Only after he felt that the worst of it had passed did Aziraphale pull his hand away and let the demon stir once again.

“Thank you for keeping me company,” he said once Crawly seemed alert. “But it is getting late. I’m certain that there are plenty of demonic wiles waiting for you that don’t involve someone coveting their neighbor’s sheep.”

“Right…” He shook his head. “You sure you’re all right, angel? You’re not still dwelling on what those idiots in Heaven said, are you?”

“I’ll be fine. Go on. I’m sure I’ll run into you again soon enough.”

Aziraphale remained under the tree as the demon reluctantly wandered back towards the village. He stayed there, trying not to dwell on the stolen memories that he’d hidden away or the tight ache in his chest. He remained motionless as the sheep continued to graze and the skies started taking on a reddish tint.

Crawly must have been lying. A lie meant to comfort and encourage, perhaps. But a lie, nonetheless. And he shouldn’t encourage the demon to tell such dangerous and uncomfortable lies. Making him forget was for the best. Crawly didn’t love him. He couldn’t love Aziraphale. That just wasn’t possible. Besides, if that was true, the angel would have sensed it. But he didn’t sense anything because Crawly didn’t really love him.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, he climbed to his feet. He didn’t like messing with the demon’s memories. It didn’t feel particularly angelic. They might be enemies, but Crawly never felt like one. And if he wasn’t an enemy, then Aziraphale’s actions were a betrayal of the demon’s trust.

But it was finished. The mess was straightened out and over with. As long as Crawly wasn’t foolish enough to say the words again, then Aziraphale would never have to think about it again.

* * *

It wasn’t over.

Over and over again, it repeated. Not with every encounter and not with every moment that they were together. But the words always returned eventually. In different countries, in different centuries, in different languages, the same confession kept tumbling from the demon’s mouth.

Sometimes, it was a gentle and heart-felt admission in a quiet moment. Other times, it came out as a slurred mumble after too much wine. And yet other times, the words were practically shouted out in a frustrated rant even as the demon clung to the angel’s shoulders in an attempt to make him understand. No two confessions were ever exactly the same.

Even as Crawly’s name shifted to Crowley, he kept finding ways to tell the angel that he loved him. And every single time that he spoke the words, Aziraphale would slip past his defenses with a subtle miracle and carefully take the memory from him. He collected those stolen moments and made the demon forget.

At first, Aziraphale bundled them away inside himself, never looking at them because they still belonged to another. But eventually he began transferring them to a small decorative box, storing them away where he would not be tempted to intrude on those moments. If the angel wanted to reflect on what he was doing, he could always search his own memories of Crowley spilling out admissions of love.

He didn’t manipulate Crowley’s mind casually. Even if it was for the greater good and he was trying to be kind about the entire situation, he didn’t enjoy doing it. Aziraphale didn’t do it every time that he disagreed with the demon or when he annoyed the angel. He didn’t even do it when Crowley did something kind or nice that could be a more subtle admission. Only when the demon said the words, when there was no denying or ignoring his meaning, did Aziraphale feel compelled to reverse the mistake.

Because it _had_ to be a mistake. Or a lie. Or he was confused. Or he didn’t really understand what love was after becoming a demon. Or a dozen other possible explanations for why Crowley kept feeling compelled to say it over and over again. It had to be one of those reasons because he couldn’t possibly love the angel.

He just didn’t understand why Crowley wouldn’t stop. Especially when Aziraphale became quite aware of how Hell would respond if Crowley was merely _friendly_ with an angel. He couldn’t imagine what foolishness was going on inside his head if he thought it was a good idea to risk claiming to love Aziraphale. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get himself killed.

* * *

The only thing worse than a human with perfect and accurate knowledge on how to summon, bind, and exorcise demons was a human with _imperfect_ knowledge. Most of the time, those mistakes could be deadly for the human messing around with forces that they didn’t quite comprehend. Other times, however, they managed to stumble onto an occult disaster that proved to be far worse for the demon.

And unfortunately, human error was merely one unpleasant bit of bad luck in the rather elaborate string of it plaguing Crowley.

A mostly routine assignment of temptation that required him spending more time in the village than he originally intended. Which led to the wrong people paying attention to his eyes, people who were both too superstitious for their own good and who knew just enough information to be dangerous. And the demon let down his guard, too comfortable and confident for once. Which then led to him not having any suspicions when one of the young girls in the village lured him toward the Village Green. Though his distracted thoughts were focused more on making certain that the girl barely out of childhood didn’t do something foolish rather than ravishing an innocent virgin, which was her father’s idea when he decided to use her as bait. And unfortunately the open field that served as the Village Green contained a large and relatively flat section of stone that turned out to be perfect for writing on, which Crowley didn’t find out until he was in the center of a circle they’d inscribed on it and he was trapped.

More than trapped. That’s where the imperfect knowledge and human error came into play.

The girl’s father, the local priest, and about half a dozen of the local men had swarmed in once they were certain that the demon couldn’t escape, carrying torches and sharp-edged farming tools as the sun began to set. And one of those men, apparently someone who came from a slightly more educated background and had come down from the manor specifically for this, claimed to be a seeker and hunter of witches and demons. He even carried a book, a rare thing to see outside of abbeys or the homes of the aristocracy or in the possession of a certain angel. Crowley’s inability to escape gave the man’s claim further weight.

But the self-proclaimed witchfinder only had a vague idea of what he was doing. The circle, inscribed with commands and even spells that none of them could truly understand, was a jumbled mess. Cobbled together from various passages from his book and from the assistance of the priest who studied under someone with similarly dangerous and ambitious ideas. The resulting monstrosity of a circle would definitely bind a demon in place. It would do that job _very_ well. It was when they tried to activate the rest of it, to “exorcise” the demon from the “poor soul possessed by evil” where everything went horribly wrong.

Attempting to exorcise Crowley from his own body should have done nothing at best or just kicked him back to Hell while leaving a deceased corporeal form behind at worst. Annoying, but acceptable. But between the conglomeration of different spells written into the very shape of the circle trapping him and the horribly mispronounced recitations of passages from the witchfinder’s book combined with the priest’s Latin commands, the ignorant pair managed to create a nightmarish result that tried to banish Crowley’s true self to Hell while also binding him in place.

In essence, the two opposing commands of the hodgepodge spell were playing tug-a-war and Crowley was the rope.

It didn’t take him long to collapse to his knees, teeth clenched and strained whines slipping out as he pressed against the spell with his power in a desperate attempt to find a weak spot to unravel the chaotic mess. The screams of agony that left his throat raw came not long after, Crowley unable to collapse further because there wasn’t room within the circle. And even when the humans fell silent, somewhere in their overly-zealous minds managing to register that something was going wrong, it didn’t help. They’d managed to create a rather vicious feedback loop that only managed to make the two opposing commands stronger the longer they went unfulfilled. It would keep going until someone broke the circle. Which meant that it kept getting worse and wouldn’t _stop_.

He was familiar with pain. A demon couldn’t tumble into Hell and then wander around Earth for thousands of years without encountering the sensation. He was even familiar with pain to his true self. Even after so long, no one ever truly forgot having Her grace and love ripped out and then Falling. But those experiences were fast. The pain might have throbbed, ached, and lingered for a while, but the true agony didn’t take that long.

The pressure, the _pain_, of his true self being pulled in two different directions with steadily increasing strength was different. It kept going. The sun sank below the horizon and the beautiful stars came out. And it kept going and the humans did nothing. More even came from the village, drawn by the disturbance. But no one interfered. Not out of cruelty, but ignorance. If Crowley could spare even a thought outside of the impossible and unending agony, he would doubt that they even knew _how_ to stop what they’d started. But as it continued to worsen, thinking became impossible and time lost all meaning. His existence became nothing more than white-hot pain.

When the feedback loop of power managed to grow strong enough that his true self began to give under the pressure, to slowly _start tearing_, Crowley’s screams changed. No longer just a sound ripped from his throat. He was screaming in agony on a different plane of existence. Humans couldn’t hear it; they only felt an overwhelming and horrifying sensation of wrongness. The closest humans, those crowded around the circle to witness the exorcism that was transforming into an execution, fell to their knees in terror that they couldn’t explain. But anything occult or ethereal would hear the sound for a hundred miles in all directions; a sound of pain so similar to the screams that filled Heaven during the War and as a third of the angels Fell.

He didn’t pray, beg, or call for help. Crowley was long past having the capacity to attempt such a thing. He also had no reason to attempt it, even if he was capable of trying. His prayers never seemed to be answered. The humans were too scared out of their minds and too ignorant to stop what they started. Any demons who might hear his screams wouldn’t care enough to intervene and most angels might investigate if only to find out if it was one of their numbers and to smite him once they realize that he wasn’t. And he knew that the only angel who would care about his suffering wasn’t close to the village; Crowley always kept track of where Aziraphale ended up. There was no one who would help him, so his screams remained wordless cries of agony that he cannot control or stop.

Crowley screamed, not needing to stop for breath and unable. He screamed as his true self began tearing apart under the endless pull from the spell. Black scales rippled across his skin. Wings slipped in and out of view, unable to stretch far from his body and yet battering against the edges of the confining circle. His corporeal body shook as his arms wrapped around his middle in an instinctive attempt to hold himself together; his body undamaged and yet reacting to the stress of his agony. His heartbeat skipped and stuttered roughly in his chest. Tears streamed down his face, eyes unable to focus on anything and staring blankly into the darkness above.

He was breaking. Deep inside, he was cracking and ripping apart. More and more tears in his true self were forming under the pressure and growing larger. All of his strength and power was slipping away, bleeding out of him as the damage grew worse and worse. And still it wouldn’t _stop_.

The hodgepodge spell kept going, growing stronger with every passing moment. But the demon was fading fast now. The magic and the damage had gained too much momentum. And after being trapped for hours, Crowley had long since passed his limits. Nothing could survive being torn asunder in such a manner.

He didn’t notice when he stopped screaming, too weak to continue on either plane. He didn’t notice the sensation of something holy approaching or the sound of celestial wings. When all the surrounding humans miraculously tumbled to the ground unconscious, he didn’t notice. He didn’t even hear the horrified and desperate voice calling his name. Crowley was far beyond that.

But he did notice when something _shattered_ the circle, interrupting the spell and banishing the tearing pressure. The sudden loss left him pitching forward, but waiting arms caught the demon before he could hit the stone below.

The pain from the deep and extensive damage remained, but felt more distant. Disconnected from his fading consciousness. His vision kept wavering in and out of focus. His hearing was muffled. But one sense hadn’t deserted Crowley yet. And scent told him who was carefully shifting his limp body, trying to figure out how to hold him while they both sank to ground.

“Azi…raph…ale…?”

“It’s all right. It’s over,” he said, sounding out of breath.

If Crowley could have properly seen and focused on the angel, he would have seen his wings out and his hair and clothes disheveled from a frantic flight. One that only grew more desperate the moment that the occult scream that he’d been following fell deathly silent. Crowley would have also seen the grim expression on Aziraphale’s face as he tried to reassure the demon that he’d managed to settle across his lap. He would have seen the worry from the angel as he Looked on a different plane to examine the damage to Crowley’s true self.

But Crowley could barely string one thought to the next, too hurt and exhausted. There wasn’t a single mark on his corporeal body, but that wasn’t the one that truly mattered. He’d been ripped and torn apart, his true self essentially shredded in the angel’s sight. Wounds too deep and too serious to ignore. He could feel himself slipping.

“Crowley,” called Aziraphale urgently, tilting his head to face the angel, “you need to stay awake. Look at me.”

He tried. He truly did. But part of him already knew that it was too late. Everything seemed to be fading out of focus except for the angel holding him. And Crowley wanted to at least say one thing before it was over. Something that he’d wanted to say for a long time and yet never did for some reason. Aziraphale needed to know.

It wasn’t as if he had anything left to lose, right?

“Please stay awake, Crowley. Now is not the time for a nap.”

“…sssorry…” Finding the strength for the words was a struggle, but he needed to do it before he completely faded from existence. “…ang… angel…? …lo… love you…”

He didn’t get to witness Aziraphale’s reaction to his whispered declaration though. Forcing himself to stay awake long enough to speak was all that he could do. Crowley surrendered to the waiting darkness, slipping under as the angel cried out his name.

Dying, _truly_ dying permanently, didn’t seem so bad... Now that it was happening, at least… Didn’t know what would happen next, but he finally told Aziraphale…

Crowley didn’t expect to ever wake up. Certainly not what felt like only a few moments later. And to be completely honest, he didn’t truly wake up. But he was jolted into a semi-conscious state by something bright, powerful, and _hot_ being shoved into the deepest part of his true self. It _burned_, but it also pushed back some of the exhaustion and darkness trying to swallow him. He would have whimpered at the sensation and he desperately wanted to squirm away from the burning brightness pouring into him, but he didn’t have the energy.

And as much as it hurt, everything already hurt and now it hurt _more_, the bright and powerful warmth was keeping life in the torn and broken form of his true self. It forced strength back into him; the strength that he needed to live. To _exist_. Even barely aware, Crowley was smart enough to know that was a good thing.

The next attempt was gentler. A little calmer and less desperate. More controlled. Still too bright and hot, but softer. The warm brightness coiled around his true form and started settling into the deepest wounds. And slowly and carefully, the bright and overwhelming power began tugging the torn pieces closer together. Pulling Crowley back together and holding the damaged parts of his true self in place like glue.

It shouldn’t have worked. Whatever the burning and intense brightness might be, whatever power was being used on the demon, it didn’t feel right. Like it shouldn’t be used on him. Not like this. It hurt. But then again, _everything_ hurt. And, despite everything, it seemed to be working. Crowley didn’t feel like he was actively dying anymore.

He should know who was doing this. He knew that he should. But he couldn’t focus on thinking or remembering. Crowley just let whoever it was do whatever they wanted, stabilizing his wounds with the burning, bright, and intense power until he slipped back into exhausted unconsciousness.

While the exact amount of time continued to elude him, Crowley could tell that it was passing. He drifted in and out of semi-consciousness. His corporeal form, which normally had some difficulties when it came to regulating temperature anyway, would seem feverish when he managed to gain some awareness of its state. Occasionally he would feel something wet and cool brush across his face, trying to combat the heat, but the demon couldn’t wake up enough to notice anything else.

And if his physical body was too warm, his true self was burning up. Everything felt too hot and uncomfortable. Considering that he started his demon career by landing in boiling sulfur, Crowley had some expert experience when it came to something being too hot. And the brightness that was poured into his true self _burned_. The amount of the intense bright power might have lessened, but it was still there. Holding him together as the damage slowly healed. Because every time that Crowley regained semi-consciousness, he could feel the difference. The rips and cracks gradually knitting back together. Eventually only the worst of them remained: greatly reduced from before, but still there and hurting.

It was official. Crowley hated everything. This entire year was awful. No, the entire _century_. He couldn’t wait for humans to hurry past it. His first fairly coherent thought since almost dying was wondering if he could just sleep through the rest of the fourteenth century.

And as he mentally complained, Crowley began to properly stir. He gradually became aware of his surroundings for the first time in a while. His corporeal form was lying somewhere relatively comfortable, for once not feeling feverish. He could hear and smell a fire close, though not so close that he felt much heat. And there was something else. Another scent. A familiar one.

His head shifted slightly as Crowley tried to follow the scent, breathing it in. But the faint movement was enough to draw attention. A gentle hand briefly cupped the side of his face in a comforting gesture before drifting up to his forehead, checking for any sign of the demon’s previous fever. And as the hand eventually pulled away, Crowley forced his eyes open a sliver.

A dim room, but one that was nice enough that it was probably part of the manor of whatever village they were at now. Certainly not the same village with the incompetent witchfinder and the overly-helpful priest. There was a fire to combat the slight chill of the room, crackling pleasantly. But far more important was the figure leaning over the bed.

For a being who claimed not want or need sleep, Aziraphale looked exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes didn’t belong there. And Crowley didn’t know that the angel could look more stressed that what he’d seen before. But he did give the demon a relieved smile when he met his gaze.

“Morning,” murmured Crowley.

His posture relaxing, Aziraphale said, “Oh, thank heaven.”

“Don’t thank them. Didn’t do anything useful.”

Crowley’s words came out slow and weary, but he was able to speak. He considered it a good sign. But the angel didn’t huff, mutter darkly, or scold him for the comment. He was too distracted Looking over the demon’s true self. It took a few moments before he seemed satisfied and focused on the corporeal again.

The words still sluggish, Crowley asked, “How did you…?”

He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t need to. Crowley could see from the way Aziraphale glanced away and his eyes took on a distant look that the angel already knew what he was asking. The hurt and fear that the memory brought to Aziraphale’s face wasn’t comforting.

“I had to try something. I wasn’t really thinking at that moment, but… Angels and demons come from the same basic stock.” He was wringing his hands as he spoke, a bundle of nervous energy. “And you were… you were… There wasn’t any _time_. No time to think or try to figure out anything better. You felt _empty_. So I just… _forced_ as much power as I could into you. To keep you here. To keep you _existing_. Then I… I wasn’t one of the healers, so no one taught me how to heal wounds to our true self. Not wounds that _bad_ and especially not for a demon. So I… improvised and hoped.”

Translation? Aziraphale panicked and pumped him full of holy energy in a desperate attempt to keep him alive. Then tried to stitch him back together with more. Which explained why it hurt so much. He’d felt like he was burning up because that’s what happens to demons when they mess with that much holiness. But it apparently worked. He survived even though Crowley knew that he shouldn’t have. Aziraphale’s attempt to save the demon could have easily destroyed him instead. But either one or both of them was too stubborn or the whole thing was just a random piece of good luck to balance out the string of bad luck that almost killed Crowley in the first place.

His eyes slipping shut for a moment, Crowley said, “Thank you, angel.” He took a deep breath before releasing it just as slowly. “How long?”

“Took a few hours to stabilize you. About a day and a half to get you here. I know the lord of the household and thought you would be safer healing here. I wasn’t even certain that it would work…,” he described quietly. “It’s been nearly a week since it happened. Your fever only broke yesterday. I suppose your corporeal body was responding to what was happening to the rest of you.” Aziraphale’s eyes closed and he almost seemed to shudder for a moment. “How much do you remember about what happened?”

“Plenty. Managed to get trapped by the least competent humans on the entire planet who managed to muck up things so badly that the spell couldn’t tell if it wanted me to stay or go. Then you showed up to drag my scaly hide out of trouble before I ended up ripped in two.”

His flippant attempt to summarize everything only managed to make the angel flinch. And even if he didn’t want to say it, Crowley instantly regretted his decision. Aziraphale was already upset enough. He’d been taking care of the demon for almost a week and was stressed out. He didn’t deserve Crowley making him feel worse.

“Anything else?” asked Aziraphale quietly. “After I freed you from the circle?”

And then it hit Crowley that, _oh, he wants to talk about it_. What Crowley confessed in what should have been his final moments. Aziraphale wanted to discuss feelings and what they meant to each other and other dangerous topics that he normally would avoid out of fear of what Heaven and Hell do. And that realization shook something down to his core. Because if Aziraphale was trying to talk about it, then maybe…

Crowley halted his thoughts at that point. He was getting ahead of himself. He was getting his hopes up. He needed to metaphorically take a step back and breathe.

Not like he could literally step back. He might be healing, but he still felt as weak as a half-drowned kitten.

“If you’re talking about what I said at the end,” he said slowly and carefully, not wanting to make a mistake, “when I thought that… When neither of us thought… You know, when I was… But the thing. The thing I said? I meant it. And I wanted to tell you before… But I _did _mean it. And… I still do.”

He’d imagined how the angel would react to the confession a thousand times over the millennia. Thousands of different scenarios, some far more likely than others. Crowley never imagined the way that Aziraphale’s expression would crumble and tears would slip down his cheeks. Panicking at the sight, Crowley tried to push himself up with his elbows.

_Tried_ being the key word.

“Angel, it’s okay. You don’t have to feel the same way. And I don’t care what your side or my side thinks. It’s fine. Please,” he begged softly.

Aziraphale shook his head slightly and said, “I’m sorry. You might not care, but saying things like that will get you killed.” He reached out and cupped the side of Crowley’s face, his thumb brushing across his cheek in a way that made the demon relax. “I’m sorry. You should rest a little longer. But you’ll be all right. I’ll take care of you and keep you safe.”

Crowley started to open his mouth to argue, but then a warm and comfortable feeling seemed to settle over him. Like curling up on a flat rock on a sunny day. And his thoughts drifted out of reach, sleep welcoming him gently. He relaxed into it without resistance.

* * *

Rather than just a brief trance, Aziraphale pushed Crowley back into a deep sleep. He was still recovering. He needed the rest. And it would make things easier later. He was removing a larger section of memories this time. Not just the confession now, but also the one a week ago. The angel also took the memory of the pain and suffering that Crowley experienced before Aziraphale heard that impossible scream and flew through the darkness to reach him. He bundled that entire time frame up and tucked it inside himself until he could store it in the box later.

Crowley wouldn’t remember waking up and having their conversation, believing that he was waking up for the first time since the incident. And he wouldn’t have any memories of the incident itself or how badly he was hurt. Aziraphale could explain the basics later of what happened and Crowley would assume that the trauma made him forget. He wouldn’t suspect a thing.

Aziraphale didn’t want him to remember that much pain. He didn’t want Crowley to remember almost dying permanently. The angel didn’t want to remember either, those horrible seconds where he couldn’t feel _anything_ from Crowley and shoved as much power into that emptiness as possible because it was the only thing he could come up with in that moment. And since the confession was all tangled up with the experience anyway, it was simpler to remove the entire event.

If anyone questioned him about all the recent miracles, Aziraphale intended to tell Heaven that an exorcism went wrong and that he was cleaning up the aftermath. Anything involved with handling demon problems tended to be scrutinized less. He just wouldn’t mention that it was the demon who was harmed by the process.

Crowley’s existence nearly ended. Trapped and torn apart out of human ignorance. And the words that he chose to be his last was a confession of love for the angel. There was no reason to do it. He was dying. It wouldn’t have mattered. And yet he said the words. Just as he said the words so many times before.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back sobs. Crowley couldn’t love him. He just _couldn’t_. And every time that he claimed to, it was harder and harder for Aziraphale to do what he needed to do.

He told himself the same thing that he always told himself. It was better for both of them. As long as Crowley didn’t remember this mistake, they could go on with their lives as if it never happened. And everything would be fine. As long as the demon didn’t say the words, everything would be fine.

* * *

The confessions never truly stopped, though it did seem to grow more difficult for Crowley to make them. He was more reluctant to speak the words, as if he knew on some level that the angel would not be comfortable hearing them. He would demonstrate his feelings in a hundred little acts of kindness, tiny gestures and ways to help Aziraphale. He would dance around and evade the conversation to an extent. Over the course of thousands of years, he knew how to work with the angel’s issues, fears, and obligations to Heaven to get the results that he wanted. He knew how to be subtle and careful.

A rescue in Paris did not immediately prompt a confession of love. Though the angel could see it in every move and gesture. Crowley did not say the words, but Aziraphale could hear it. Plain and clear. And it warmed something in the angel that he couldn’t quite acknowledge. He enjoyed being rescued by Crowley and the meal afterwards. As long as everything remained subtext, he could maintain plausible deniability and pretend that he didn’t understand the silent declarations of love.

But sometimes, Crowley would still gather up his courage and tell the angel directly. And every time, Aziraphale would tug that memory out and later lock it in the decorative box where it could do no further harm. It broke his heart, but the angel reassured himself that it was to keep the demon safe. He told himself that it was the safer option.

A quiet moment of comfort became a moment of heartache for Aziraphale when Crowley once again whispered the words and the angel took them away. A week later, the demon came to him again. He came asking for holy water. And he vanished when the angel refused.

And for the first time in thousands of years of trying to protect Crowley, Aziraphale wondered if he was actually hurting him.

* * *

Crowley led him over the rubble to a shiny black car parked just out of range of the blast. The demon carefully slipped the bag of books behind the driver’s seat. Aziraphale accepted the offer for a ride back to the bookshop. Just because he survived the Nazis in the church didn’t mean that the war was over; London was dark and it wasn’t practical to attempt walking back in the chaos.

He immediately learned that Crowley’s driving was more chaotic and terrifying than any of the attacks on London so far. But between trying not to panic over how fast he was going, Aziraphale’s mind couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened.

Consecrated ground.

That thought kept fluttering around Aziraphale’s mind. Like a dove beating its wings against a window, trying to escape. Crowley set foot on consecrated ground.

No. More than that. He practically waltz into a church, feet burning and stinging the entire way, because Aziraphale needed help. And then he redirected a bomb. Or rather, he would have needed to redirect an entire _plane_ to drop the bomb. Demonic miracles are harder to pull off surrounded by holiness, so he would have needed to start the process before he came into the church to help Aziraphale. And if the angel didn’t shield them both, Crowley would have been discorporated too. But he risked it anyway. For Aziraphale.

And then, using what little power that he could on consecrated ground, Crowley protected the angel’s books. He remembered something so precious to Aziraphale and saved them. Because he wanted to make the angel happy.

Because he cared.

Crowley was practically screaming his feelings at the angel. Louder than any words. Despite their argument, despite not seeing each other for decades, and despite everything else, Crowley truly believed that he loved Aziraphale. And he believed it strongly enough to do all of this for him.

Aziraphale didn’t want to examine it too closely because Crowley _couldn’t_ love him. He _shouldn’t_. And yet, his actions spoke far louder than the words that the angel always stole away.

And something in him wanted to answer the demon. Which Aziraphale knew that he should silence before he started making the same dangerous mistake.

He ended up so deep in his thoughts that it took the angel a moment to realize that the high-speed drive down dark streets with no headlights, London _was_ blacked out after all, had come to an end. The car pulled to the curb outside his bookshop and Crowley turned to give him an inquisitive look.

“You okay, angel? Been a bit quiet.”

“I’m fine. Completely tip-top.”

“Good.” He shifted awkwardly in his seat, tightening his hands on the steering wheel. “Not planning any more rendezvous with dangerous people, are you? Do I need to scribble it on a calendar for later?”

Aziraphale shook his head and said, “No. I think I’ll…” His voice trailed off briefly. “I missed you. Seeing you around, I mean. It wasn’t the same. After so long, I was used to your presence and the Arrangement. And then I didn’t see you for so many years. I didn’t hear anything. I thought that… Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you this evening and I’m grateful for your assistance in this manner. Not after…”

“Come on, angel. When have I ever left you high and dry? Keeping you out of trouble is my specialty. Nothing’s going to change that.”

He should leave. Aziraphale knew that he should take his books and call it an evening. He knew that was the right thing to do. And yet he stayed, his hand on the door handle.

“You didn’t have to save me, Crowley. You didn’t have to save my books,” he said quietly.

“You love your books.”

“Protecting them with a demonic miracle in a church? Why would you put in that much effort? _You_ don’t love them.”

“But I love _you_.”

The words were barely a whisper. But Crowley said them. They hung in the air between them. Waiting to be acknowledged.

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the feeling of tears. It always came back to this. Crowley would always say it. And he would always believe that he loved the angel. No matter how much time passed or how little that they might see each other between confessions, it kept happening.

And part of the angel wanted to love him back.

He opened his eyes and met Crowley’s uncertain expression. Aziraphale gave him a weak smile before reaching towards him.

His hand brushed the frames of the demon’s glasses, but only for a second. Just long enough to make his silent request understood. Crowley gave the smallest stunned nod and Aziraphale carefully took them off. Bright yellow eyes, filled with confusion and hope, stared back. Crowley let him pull his face closer. And when Aziraphale pressed a small and chaste kiss to his forehead, the demon closed his eyes and breathed in.

It was a soft sound. One that seemed to whisper relief and awe. Tension melted out of his features, leaving Crowley looking happier and more peaceful than Aziraphale could ever remember seeing. But his bright eyes were still closed. He didn’t see the tears pouring down the angel’s face.

Because as much as Aziraphale wanted this, as much as part of him wished that he could let this happen, he knew better. Crowley shouldn’t, _couldn’t_, truly love him.

Still holding Crowley’s face between his hands, his thumb rubbing along his cheek gently, Aziraphale said, “I’m so sorry. You know that I didn’t want to give you holy water back then because I wanted to protect you, don’t you?”

“Told you,” he mumbled, still not opening his eyes. “Wasn’t a suicide pill. Just insurance. In case.”

“I wanted you safe, Crowley. Even if you hate me for it, I can’t bear the idea of you being hurt because of something that I did.”

Crowley opened his eyes and frowned at Aziraphale’s tears. He reached up with one hand to brush them away.

“I could never hate you. Just wish you’d trust me a bit more.”

“Trust a demon?” Aziraphale gave a choked laugh. “Could you imagine how Heaven or Hell would respond to that idea?” Blinking rapidly, he said, “I’m sorry. You deserve to be loved. You’ve deserved that for a long time. You deserve better than…” Aziraphale shook his head slightly even as the faintest hint of a blush crept across Crowley’s face. “I can’t give you what you deserve. But I can protect you.”

A gentle miracle pushed the demon under, allowing Aziraphale the chance to replace the sunglasses and quietly weep for what could never be. And once he was calm enough, the memory was pulled free and the angel left with his books just as he should have done sooner.

* * *

An offering of holy water contained in a tartan thermos. An apology. A quiet declaration of trust. A fragile hope. All those things were carefully handed to the demon even as the angel feared what Crowley would do next.

And when they strayed too close to topics that Aziraphale feared would lead to another confession, he stopped them before he needed to add another memory to the decorative box hidden in his bookshop.

_You go too fast for me._

Enough to silence the demon from those dangerous words, but offering hope that perhaps the future might be better. Perhaps not what the demon wanted, but better. The possibility of “someday” might be enough to keep the thermos sealed and Crowley safe.

Time seemed to race as the end drew closer. It all seemed too much, too soon.

A little over a decade in constant contact, raising and guiding a child who turned out not to be the Anti-Christ that they sought.

Arguments, lies, and a shattered relationship, broken fragments of both their hearts left scattered across the bandstand.

Denial and naïve hope tossed aside as Heaven’s true nature was exposed beyond any shadow of a doubt, leaving Aziraphale adrift and untethered.

A frantic escape to Earth, to Madame Tracy’s body, to Tadfield, to the airbase where he found the Anti-Christ already rebelling against his purpose.

Standing against Heaven, Hell, and the devil himself alongside Crowley.

And then it was over. Or rather, it wasn’t over. The world kept spinning, humans kept living, and Aziraphale and Crowley were left standing on the tarmac with no guidance of what would happen next except a singed prophecy. All that they could think to do was to take a bus back to London with the knowledge that as soon as the other angels and demons were forced to stand down, there would be a reckoning.

* * *

Most of the bus ride was silent. The events of the day were beginning so sink in, pushing past the supernatural equivalent of adrenaline. Crowley was nearly unconscious in his seat, leaning heavily against the angel. Stopping time on that scale wasn’t easy. And Aziraphale felt his own weariness weighing him down, blinking blearily even as he tried to decipher the words of the final prophecy. Neither of them had the energy to speak at the moment.

But they’d been holding hands since the bus ride started. And neither showed signs of letting go, even when the bus stopped outside Crowley’s flat and the two of them staggered off.

While Crowley mumbled something about a mess and demon goo when they managed to stumble into his flat, Aziraphale didn’t see anything out of place. Though to be fair, there didn’t seem to be much in the demon’s flat. It was dark and empty. The only signs of Crowley’s personality seemed to be some rather terrified plants. But after another slurred comment about how “Adam must have cleaned up or something,” Crowley gestured towards one dark room and said there was a television and maybe a couple books if the angel was interested before wandering in a different direction.

He let go of the angel’s hand. Aziraphale followed him anyway.

Because the demon maintained his habit of sleeping over thousands of years, he naturally had a bedroom. The space was just as dark as the rest of the flat. Two tall floor lamps and a pair of nightstands framed either side of a huge bed covered in half a dozen black pillows, black silk sheets, gray blankets, and a black comforter. Anyone would describe the sight as luxurious. Smarter and more observant people would also realize that it was meant to be cozy and that at least one of the gray blankets was an electric heat blanket, which was ideal for a demon who shared several traits with an exothermic reptile.

The rather comfortable-looking setup for the bed distracted Aziraphale enough that he didn’t initially notice that Crowley had either physically changed into black silk pajamas or swapped his outfit with a demonic miracle. Regardless, he started crawling into his nest of blankets with a tired groan. It took him a few clumsy tries to place his sunglasses on one of the nightstands. Only then did he notice that Aziraphale had followed him in.

“Angel?” he mumbled.

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed and said quietly, “I’m afraid that I don’t quite feel up to spending the next few hours alone. If it is all right with you, may I sit in here while you sleep? I promise that I will try not to disturb you. I plan to spend the time trying to decipher Agnes’s final prophecy.”

He knew that unless he figured out the riddle of her final prophecy, both of them were going to be punished by Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale knew that. And he knew that the punishment would be execution. There would be no reasoning with those in power. No excuses, explanations, and no rational remarks would be accepted.

There was nothing that Aziraphale could say to sway any of his fellow angels. Because Heaven was not what he’d always believed, hoped, and wanted it to be. The mercy, kindness, and love were conditional. They offered loved and acceptance as tantalizing reward for obedience and loyalty, but kept it just out of range. And every imperfection from their sterile and unyielding view of the universe was scoffed at, ripped apart, and shunned. They held the threat of failure and Falling over everyone’s heads. The only way to live up to their ideals was to sacrifice every piece of your heart until only cold, harsh, uncompromising, and unforgiving stone remained. And because Aziraphale couldn’t and wouldn’t become like the other angels in the end, he and Crowley were the ones who would be sacrificed.

He’d given up Heaven and his place among the other angels. He’d watched his entire worldview shatter and expose the ugly truth. He’d seen a demon and the literal Anti-Christ show more love and kindness for Earth and humanity than his fellow angels. His home and all his worldly possessions had burned. The only things that he had left was Earth, Crowley, and his own existence. And if he did not figure out something before Heaven and Hell came for them, then Aziraphale would lose even that much.

All in all, it had been a _very_ trying day. And sitting silently for hours in the dark and empty flat with only his thoughts sounded dreadful. At least remaining in the same room with Crowley would offer a hint of comfort.

“If you want to stay,” said Crowley slowly, “I won’t stop you. It’ll get a bit boring though. Sure you don’t want to watch television or something?”

Aziraphale shook his head and the demon shrugged before wiggling further under his blankets. The angel leaned until his back could rest against the headboard. For a few minutes, there was just silence. Crowley hadn’t even bothered to turn off the lights. It seemed like too much of an effort.

But eventually Aziraphale’s hand slipped under the covers. And Crowley took it cautiously.

“It’ll be all right,” said Aziraphale. “We’ll get through this.”

It wasn’t just his belief in Agnes and her ability to guide them from beyond the grave that made him say those words. He may have lost his faith in Heaven and his fellow angels, but Aziraphale still had faith in Her and Her ineffable plan. Aziraphale truly believed that She must have something else in mind for them.

He believed. Aziraphale believed in Her, in Agnes, and in the demon holding his hand and who had never failed him.

“You’ll figure it out, angel. You’re too clever not to,” said Crowley. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand briefly before pushing himself up with one elbow. “But there’s something you should know. That I should have told you a long time ago.”

Aziraphale turned slightly, letting go of his hand in order to cup Crowley’s face. He could already feel his chest tighten and couldn’t bear what was about to happen. Not tonight. Not after everything else. He would break if Crowley said the words right now.

“Please,” he said in a shaking voice. “Whatever you want to tell me, it can wait. You don’t need to tell me anything now. Not like this. There’s no need for last-minute confessions of any sort because everything will be fine. Anything that you need to tell me… or that I need to tell you… It can wait until this is finished. When this is over, we’ll have all the time in the world to talk.”

Hesitating a few minutes, Crowley reached up to where Aziraphale was still holding his face and placed his own hand over the angel’s. Then he gave a slow nod. His bright and tired yellow eyes seemed to hold a glimmer of something sad and hopeful.

“Okay, Aziraphale. It can wait then.”

It doesn’t take a miracle to push the demon to sleep. Exhaustion and stress do the job quite nicely. He barely gets the words out before his eyes slip closed, his hand gradually goes limp, and his breathing began to settle into a slower pattern. Aziraphale uses the opportunity to tuck the blanket around him more firmly and settle in for a long night.

Something in the angel’s chest loosened when Crowley didn’t say the words, but another part of him felt awful. Because he knew what he would have to do. When this was over. After he figured out a way to protect the demon a final time. If— _when_ they managed to survive the wrath of both Heaven and Hell, he would have to tell Crowley… everything.

He deserved to know. Aziraphale couldn’t hide the truth any longer. He would have to tell Crowley. But he knew what that would mean. Even if he didn’t lose the demon to Heaven or Hell, Aziraphale would still lose him.

* * *

As terrifying and stressful as the attempted executions by their former sides might have been, the fear that Heaven would figure out what was wrong or that _Aziraphale_ would be discovered, the switch managed to work and Crowley walked out in one piece. Changing back afterwards was a relief for multiple reasons. He missed the familiarity of his own form and he needed to see his angel, alive and safe.

Dinner afterwards felt surreal. The entirety of it was starting to sink in. No more hiding. No more looking over their shoulders. No more preparing for the worst-case scenario. And no more worrying about being discovered by either side.

No need to be secretive and indirect.

Our own side.

The idea was overwhelming and part of him was waiting for something to go wrong. But Crowley was doing his best to relax that tightly-wound part of himself. Perhaps their stunt wouldn’t scare off Heaven and Hell forever. Perhaps there were hidden traps and pitfalls that he just couldn’t recognize yet. But he’d spent thousands of years figuring out where are the dangerous lines were and how to dance around them, twisting them to suit his needs and keep enough plausible deniability to protect the two of them. For the first time, he could set aside most of those habits and just enjoy being around Aziraphale without needing a single excuse.

Both of them seemed to be riding the high of pulling the wool over Heaven and Hell’s eyes and the world being safe for the foreseeable future. The exact mood was hard to describe, but certainly a mixture of several positive things. Happy, relaxed, thankful, soft, and warm. Crowley couldn’t help basking in the metaphorical glow from his angel; the weight of Heaven’s expectations and disapproval was finally off his shoulders and he seemed all the better for it.

It was only afterwards, when Crowley suggested returning to the bookshop so that Aziraphale could see his restored home for himself that some of the lighter mood began to dissipate. It was subtle. Impossibly subtle. But he’d known Aziraphale for thousands of years. And the closer they came to the bookshop, the Bentley still parked near Crowley’s flat and unavailable to speed things along, the more obvious that Aziraphale’s darkening mood became.

Part of him hoped that it was just nerves. He hoped that the angel was just anxious about seeing his bookshop and was wrestling with the irrational fear that it wouldn’t be there after all. Crowley had already buried similar thoughts about his poor Bentley. And while he did see a smile the moment Aziraphale set foot back inside his bookshop, a certain amount of tension remained.

Despite his best efforts, Crowley felt himself on edge again.

“Something on your mind, angel?” he asked.

Running his hands along the bookshelves as he wandered among his restored volumes, Aziraphale said, “Do you recall last night? When I told you that we could discuss things afterwards?”

Crowley went still. He remembered. He just didn’t think that it would be Aziraphale who brought it back up. Even if Crowley didn’t get to tell him what he intended, something in the angel’s voice told him that he already suspected or knew what the demon wanted to say. What he needed Aziraphale to know. But now that his angel seemed ready to talk about it…

It was terrifying and overwhelming. He’d wanted this for a very long time. He’d thought about it more times than he could count and yet Crowley never could seem to admit it. He wanted this and it scared him to death.

But he’d faced the end of the world. He’d faced Satan. He’d faced burned bookshops and the angel’s threat to never speak to him again.

Crowley could at least be brave enough to handle one more challenge.

“Before you say anything,” continued Aziraphale, interrupting him before Crowley could speak, “I am afraid that I need to ask something of you. Can you do me one small favor and not ask any questions? At least, save any questions until afterwards? I… I just need you to do this without asking me why.”

No questions. That was not the best thing to request of him. Crowley couldn’t stop asking questions, regardless of how dangerous it might be. Asking questions was what led to him becoming a demon in the first place. Telling him not to ask questions was like asking him to swim a few laps in holy water.

But for Aziraphale…

He nodded. The angel didn’t look completely happy with the agreement. Aziraphale disappeared amongst his shelves. A few moments later, he returned with a small decorative box.

It didn’t seem any different than any of the other knickknacks that the angel had collected over the millennia. The wooden box was a cube-shape that easily fit in Aziraphale’s cupped hands. The dark wood was carved with rather intricate designs of trees, apples, and… snakes.

“Reminded you of me?” asked Crowley. “Not exactly a good likeness, I’m afraid. My head isn’t that triangular.”

The comment should have coaxed at least a small smile from the angel. But it didn’t.

“I need you to take this box back to your flat. And when you’re there, I need you to open it,” he said.

Crowley opened his mouth, intending to ask what was inside it, why he needed to open it at his flat, what he was supposed to do after opening it, and a dozen other questions. But then he snapped it shut. Aziraphale already made his conditions clear. Crowley didn’t understand what was going on, but the solemn expression on the angel’s face stressed the importance of this task.

It seemed like a lot of trouble just to confess that he loved Aziraphale, but Crowley had done far more difficult things for him.

He studied the box further on his way back towards his flat. It didn’t weight much and he didn’t hear anything sliding around inside when he tilted it back and forth. He couldn’t smell anything other than wood, dust, and something distinctive to Aziraphale. There wasn’t a lock; only a snake-shaped latch that twisted, catching on the raised apple design. It was a beautiful piece of work. Something crafted by a skilled carpenter and one of the angel’s older possessions. It had lasted at least several centuries at a minimum. But Crowley couldn’t find any further clues about it or Aziraphale’s strange request.

Crowley paused a few minutes upon arrival in order to fawn over his restored Bentley. No, not exactly restored. Calling it “restored” would imply that Adam fixed it from its damaged state. Instead, he’d made it so that it was never harmed in the first place. His loyal car showed not a single sign of the fire that it endured for him. Crowley gave his Bentley the deserved praise before reluctantly returning to the matter at hand.

He sat down in his golden throne, ignoring the spot where Ligur’s remains _should_ have been. He turned the mystery box around a few more times, studying it carefully. Then, with a shrug, Crowley released the latched and opened it.

A flare of painfully-bright light erupted from within. Crowley couldn’t help wincing. Then he gasped as numerous stolen memories flooded his mind, driving the breath out of him.

* * *

Aziraphale reluctantly blinked awake, sore and stiff from his awkward position in his chair. He didn’t even mean to fall asleep. Unlike some, sleep didn’t come naturally to him. But his breakdown exhausted him and he’d drifted off after the worst of the tears had slowed. He’d barely managed to hold himself together long enough for Crowley to leave.

Thinking about Crowley almost set him off again. And he didn’t want to start crying again. His face already felt sticky with dried tears and his head ached. And his chest felt tight, like a snake was constricting him.

No, he didn’t want to think about snakes. Or one specific serpent.

He gave Crowley the box. He gave him the box containing all of the moments that he stole from the demon over the millennia. Aziraphale gave him the box and sent him back to his home. And once he opened the box and released all those trapped memories, Crowley would know. He would remember everything and he would know exactly what Aziraphale had done.

And with that thought, Aziraphale broke down a second time. He buried his face in his hands as he wept, shoulders shaking and heart aching.

He knew what would happen when he returned those memories. He knew what it would mean. But he couldn’t lie to Crowley any longer. He deserved to know the truth. He deserved to know how many times Aziraphale broke his trust. And despite how many times that he tried to reassure himself that it was for the best and that it was the right decision, he was hurting the demon with every single betrayal.

Because that’s what it was. A betrayal. Taking those memories was a betrayal.

Aziraphale knew as soon as Crowley learned the truth, it was over. There was no going back. He knew that the moment that the demon walked out the door with the box, he would never see Crowley again.

It hurt. But the pain was Aziraphale’s own doing. He had no one to blame except himself. And if his punishment was to be completely alone until the world truly ended, then so be it. He welcomed the heartache and sorrow.

Crowley told him countless times that he loved Aziraphale. And every single time, the angel stole that away. He silenced him. He took those precious memories and locked them away. That was no way to treat a friend. It was no way to treat someone that Aziraphale loved back.

But it was over now. All of it. Heaven and Hell would leave them alone for a while. And Crowley knew the truth. He would be safe and could make a life for himself on Earth, free of Hell’s demands and the substandard angel who ruined everything. Crowley was safe from Heaven, Hell, and even Aziraphale.

Crowley could be happy now.

Regardless of how much Aziraphale knew that he deserved his current misery and that he had no right to be upset, he couldn’t ignore the gaping pain of loss. He couldn’t stop sobbing into the soaked handkerchief in his hands. And he didn’t hear the soft bell above his front door or the cautious footsteps. He barely noticed any of his surroundings until a firm and emotionless voice interrupted him.

“Aziraphale.”

The angel startled and looked up with teary eyes. Crowley was there, standing uncharacteristically straight. His expression was unreadable. The shades hide his eyes, but not even the rest of his face offered a hint at his thoughts. But Aziraphale could feel his gaze burning through him.

He wiped away as much of his tears as he could, his breathing still hitching as he struggled to get himself under control again. Part of him wanted to hope, but the angel was quick to squash that impulse. He could guess why the demon might decide to come back.

If Crowley wanted some form of revenge from him, he more than deserved it.

“Why?” asked Crowley slowly. “Thousands of years. I’ve been… _gah_… You made me think that… _ngk_… And every time? I just…” He started gesturing wildly with one hand, struggling to find the words to express himself. “All this time and you… _hng_… Aziraphale, how could… Just… Just…” The demon stopped, took a deep breath, and crouched down to eye level. “_Why?_”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Questions. Of course, he had questions. Crowley never ran out of questions. The more dangerous or complicated, the better. And just like he always did, Aziraphale answered.

“There were a few different reasons over time,” he said quietly. “At first, I didn’t believe you. Angels can sense love and I could never sense it from you. I thought maybe you were mistaken or lying or… I don’t know, but I didn’t think it could be true. And later, I was afraid of what would happen to you if Hell found out. Or even Heaven. I thought that you would be safer if you didn’t… If it never happened. That doesn’t make it right. There is no excuse for what I did and I don’t expect forgiveness. But you deserved to know what I did to you. I was wrong to make you forget and I am truly sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Crowley. If you wish to yell or lash out or whatever you need to do, I have more than earned it.”

There was silence. Not a single sound. He almost opened his eyes, wondering if the demon had left and he was alone again. It would make sense. Crowley got his answers. There would be no reason to linger any longer.

Then Crowley broke the silence with an even and emotionless voice that unnerved the angel.

“That’s not everything. I saw enough from those memories. You’re not telling me everything, Aziraphale. There was another reason that you wanted me to forget.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue that he’d confessed to everything. But when Crowley mentioned another reason, he suddenly realized that there was one. He’d never consciously thought about it. But it was there, lurking at the back of his mind and hurting with every declaration of love.

“I wanted you to forget because you shouldn’t love me.”

“Because I’m a demon and incapable of loving anyone, let alone an angel? Because I’d corrupt you somehow?”

The words were just as even and emotionless as before, but Aziraphale still winced. He opened his eyes and stared at the demon who was trying so hard to hide his feelings and succeeding for once.

“No, Crowley. I might not be able to sense your love, but I know you’re capable of it. You’re loving, kind, smart, brave, and wonderful. And, even if you hate the word, _nice_.” Aziraphale twisted the handkerchief in his hands, trying to hide how much he could feel them shaking. “And that’s why you couldn’t love me. You needed to forget because… it was a mistake. You needed to save that love for someone who deserves it. Someone better. Someone smarter, stronger, nicer, and… and just _better_. Someone who was actually worthy of your love.” He closed his eyes, trying not to shed anymore tears. “If you didn’t remember saying the words to me, then it was like you didn’t really do it. And then you could someday find someone more deserving of you. Someone better than a complete failure of an angel…”

He didn’t expect the gentle touch and nearly jumped out of his chair when Crowley pulled his hands away from the handkerchief. Aziraphale stared in silence as the demon took both of his hands in his own. Then Crowley shook his head with a small smile, somehow sad and fond at the same time.

“Angel, how can someone so clever be so incredibly stupid about some things? I’m blaming Gabriel. I should have dragged him into the hellfire with me.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You don’t get to decide who I love. No one does. Not even God gets to cast Her vote on this. And there is no one else in the entire universe who makes the grade. Human, demon, or angel. Just you. Only you. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s been you from the beginning. I’m not looking for someone better because they don’t exist.”

“And then I ruined it,” said Aziraphale quietly.

“You certainly tried your best, angel. But even if it hurts to know that you made me forget so many moments, I remember them now. I remember every apology that you made when it happened. I remember when you would cry over making me forget. I remember you saving my life.”

“I told you about that.”

“_No_, you told me that I got hurt during a failed exorcism and that you looked after me while I recovered. You _didn’t_ say that I nearly died because some idiots nearly tore me apart and you barely kept me in existence. That’s a bit different. But I remember that now. And I remember that you kissed me after I saved you at the church. I remember enough to know that even if you were messing with my mind, you cared. You cared and you regretted making me forget.”

He swallowed and bowed his head for a moment. And when Crowley raised his head once more, his voice sounded a little tighter and shakier than before.

“And I remember yesterday. I remember finding your bookshop in flames and believing with all my heart that it was the work of Hell or Heaven. I remember believing that they’d burned you out of existence. I remember believing that you were gone, angel.” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge that image from his mind. “And as mad as I am at you right now for taking all those memories from me for so long, I _can’t_ go back to that. I can’t live in a world without you in it.”

Despite his best efforts, a tiny spark of hope started burning in Aziraphale’s chest. He didn’t want to assume anything. He didn’t deserve it. But what Crowley was saying kept coaxing that spark to burn brighter.

“So I’m going to be mad at you. I’m going to be mad, hurt, and annoyed about this whole mess. Probably for a while. And we’re definitely going to talk through this a lot more. Possibly with alcohol. It’s not going to be fun,” said Crowley. “Then, we’re going to hunt down one of those therapist people and see if they can sort out the issues that Heaven caused because it’s either that or I go strangle Gabriel because _no one_ gets to make you think that you aren’t good enough. But after all that, we’ll move on. We’ll move forward. Because this is our side and I’m not giving up on us.”

Aziraphale stared at him in awe for a moment before throwing himself out of his chair, wrapping both arms around Crowley and hugging him close. Kneeling on the floor in a desperate hug might not be the most dignified position. And sniffling messily into Crowley’s shoulder didn’t help that image. But when the demon chuckled quietly and wrapped his arms around him in return, it warmed the angel in places that he’d never realized were cold.

“Still mad at you,” grumbled Crowley, not letting go.

“I know. I will never forgive myself for what I’ve done to you. It was wrong. And I will apologize for the next six thousand years if I must,” he said. “But as long as I have that chance, as long as I haven’t lost you, then that is enough.”

He felt the demon’s sigh of relief. He felt Crowley relaxing in his embrace. And Aziraphale felt something warm and bright that took a moment to recognize.

Denial and self-delusion were powerful things. Powerful enough to trick him into missing intense love coming from a demon for six thousand years.

“Angel,” whispered Crowley, “I know I’ve said it before and we both remember it now, and you don’t have to—”

“I love you too, Crowley.”

* * *

There was a story of a box that held all evil inside. The story goes that it was eventually opened and all that suffering was released upon the world. But there are also versions of the story in which something else was contained within the box. Something small and bright. Something that made the suffering easier to bear.

Pandora’s box did not just contain heartache, pain, and suffering. It also held the gift of hope. And if no one ever opened the box, then there would have never been any hope.


End file.
